Kozlov’s I-O-U is in the safe as well as a few grand in cash and if I’m not mistaken a large quantity of Bolivian marching powder.
Pulling a hole in the wrapping around the Charlie I sprinkle nose powder across Pope’s body and the blood stained carpet. For good measure I scatter a few crisp fifty-pound notes. That should muddy the waters nicely.
I stuff the I-O-U into my backpack, along with the remaining readies, the rest of the cocaine and the Browning.
Then I get the hell out of there.
I’ve been Kozlov’s second shadow for the last three days. Bodyguards have chauffeured him around London in a rented Mercedes. I watch as dodgy low-life faces are leaned on and dirty coppers oiled with rolls of greasy bank notes. Kozlov is hunting something or someone.
A little digging reveals Kozlov is ex-military with a murky, chequered past. A reputation for slaughter and pillage kept strictly on the QT. The jewels rumoured to be the ill-gotten gain of a hushed up Eastern European war crime atrocity.
Kozlov and the bodyguards are staying at a Knightsbridge hotel. It’s gone nine o’clock in the evening when Kozlov returns to his first floor room. I’m behind the bathroom door, peaking through the crack. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up inside a closet. Then he works the combination lock on a black Samsonite trunk and rummages inside.
Two strides across the carpet and I clasp my gloved left hand over Kozlov’s mouth, feeling his body stiffen, like a coiled spring. I put the.38 against his lughole. The cold steel barrel keeps him quiet.
I count the beating of my heart, loud as a drum inside my chest until I reach one hundred and twenty then ease the Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol from Kozlov’s waistband. The bodyguards are now out of earshot.
I shove Kozlov into the main area of the plush suite, throwing the Glock onto the bed out of reach.
Kozlov is tall, blond and muscular with a confident military swagger. He’s casually dressed in a pale blue denim shirt and Chinos. A smile doesn’t get close to reaching blue grey eyes that show no fear and are as cold as a freshly cut grave.
“I assume you’re the gentleman that killed Sylvester Pope,” he says in impeccable English.
“I’m no gentleman, squire.” I point the.38 at his chiselled face, “And I’m asking the questions. Now, did you slice and dice Archie Knox?”
“HA-HA. HA-HA, HA-HA, HA-HA!”
His laugh is loud and spontaneous, taking me by surprise. He shakes his head, grinning like the cat that got the cream.
“You idiot! Knox stole something very valuable from me.” He spreads his arms wide, “Why kill him before I got it back?”
I’m thinking he’s got a bloody good point when the telephone, sitting on a writing desk, suddenly chirp, chirp, chirps into life. Half a heartbeat passes as my eyes flick towards the sound and back again. Kozlov moves like greased lightning. My gun hand is knocked aside. Straightened fingers stab my throat. A blur of a fist loosens my front teeth and a Karate chop sends the.38 flying from my grip.
Kozlov is all over me like a cheap nineteen seventies splash on lotion. I’m no match for his fancy Kung Fu moves. Martial art blows reign down and a ferocious roundhouse kick, à la Jean-Claude Van Damme, puts me on the deck. I taste blood, my strength ebbing away.
Kozlov moves in close. Too close.
I grab a hold of his face and dig both of my thumbs into his eyes and gouge. He swears and flails blindly. I launch myself up and my forehead kisses him Glaswegian style. Cartilage snaps. Blood and snot flows from his hooter. The Ruski son of a bitch is stunned for sure.
But, as I reach down towards my ankle, his hands snake out, gripping my throat like a vice.
The fingers of my right hand touch the handle of the switchblade tucked inside my Doc Martin boot. I pull it free. One click and the blade springs smoothly out. I sweep it through the air. The tip finds the fleshy corner of Kozlov’s mouth. I jerk the blade and Kozlov’s teeth and gums are bloodily exposed giving him a ghoulish jack-o-lantern leer.
He wails like a siren in an electric storm until I silence him by sliding the blade under his ribs and up into his heart.
I push Kozlov’s dead body away, saying aloud, “Never under estimate a dirty street fighter!”
My body aches like an octogenarian’s. I pick up the.38 and the Glock and retrieve my backpack from the bathroom. Pope’s Browning 9mm, the cash, the drugs and the I-O-U go into the Samsonite trunk. I spin the combination lock, hearing footsteps pound the corridor.
As I reach the French doors to the balcony a size eleven boot kicks the suite door open. I turn and in a split second hear a pistol crack, a whoosh of air and white heat scorches my left shoulder. The bullet continues its trajectory splintering the wooden doorframe beside my head. Ignoring the pain washing over me I drop to one knee, take a bead with the.38 and squeeze the trigger. Bullet one clips the bodyguard’s right shoulder, knocking him back against the shattered door. Bullets two and three each punch holes the size of a fist in the centre of his wife beater tee shirt raising a plume of claret that splatters the pristine suite wall like an abstract red on white piece of modern art.
The gunshots and a deathly cry are still ringing in my ears as I tumble over the parapet into the shrubbery below.
My shoulder hurts like hell. My heart, hammering like an over worked piston, is trying to escape from under my ribcage. Perspiration soaks my back and forehead, dripping down my face as I take the stairs two at a time to the hotel underground car park.
The BMW I’ve been using for the past week is “on loan” from a longstanding and trustworthy contact in the motor trade. It’s as moody as an acne-riddled teenager. The plates are false and the chassis number obliterated. As soon as this is over it’ll be crushed and scrapped. Shame really, the Beamer’s a lovely motor but needs must when the devil drives.
The parking area is dimly lit and deserted but I know I’m not out of the woods yet. I take deep breaths, willing myself to ignore the red-hot poker burning my left shoulder. My entire body throbs painfully but I need to stay calm.
I approach the BMW and trigger the key fob; the central locking system clunks. I slip behind the wheel. The Beamer’s engine purrs into life like a fat contented cat. I put the transmission into drive, settle myself on the leather seat and slowly pull away, singing softly, “Nice n’ easy does it, every time.”
Fifty yards ahead a side door to the left bursts open. Kozlov’s second heavy rushes into view. He’s dressed in Caterpillar boots, combats and a dark hoody. Slung over his shoulder is a lethal looking machine pistol. Oh shit!
He sprints, barking out something indistinguishable, pulling the gun around and up into a firing position.
“Shit or bust!” I say aloud, putting pedal to metal and flicking the headlamps onto full beam. The BMW speeds forward. The fat pussy stops purring and begins to roar. Tyres find traction, squealing on the slick concrete floor.
I see salt ‘n’ pepper stubble on the heavy’s chin and the white of his eyes. The machine pistol explodes wickedly into life. Red-hot lead slugs clatter, ricochet and sing off the Beamers paintwork. The windscreen pops and cracks then splinters as I duck below the dashboard. I step further on the gas and the BMW moves smoothly through the gears. A crescendo of bullets pockmark and shred the Beamer’s metalwork. Amid the cacophony I hold my nerve and the steering wheel steady for an eternity until I hear an anguished cry and a sickening thud. A dead weight bounces onto the BMW’s bonnet and up and over the speeding motor. I punch a hole through the mosaic, spider-webbed windscreen as the Beamer ploughs through the exit barrier. The rear-view gives a fleeting glimpse of a prone crumpled figure, like a pile of old soiled rags.